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In My Life
In a single word, John was seething.
Fuck that. One word couldn’t summarise the overwhelming internal tornado of emotion that was hacking away at his insides. John was, in three words: absolutely fucking seething, and he was hardly confident that the feeling would dissipate anytime soon.
Of course, John had been angry before. Over the course of his life, John had grown more than accustom to the feeling of anger. Rage raced through his veins, intertwined with his lifeblood, his past, his present, likely his future too. It was that same anger that kept his heart pumping at that furious, illogical up-tempo beat that it never strayed from, and long gone were the days John tried to question or even stop it. Anger, his ever-faithful companion, had followed him throughout his life like a fiery, disloyal dog. John was sure he could sit in some queer shrink’s office and hear a thousand different explanations for his stunning ability to fly off the handle at a moment’s notice- most of them likely stemming from the swarming cocktail of parental abandonment issues, less-than-traditional upbringing, disapproving teachers, Stu’s sudden death, countless sleepless nights in Hamburg after consuming enough prellies to flatten a horse, the unexpected stumble he’d taken into fatherhood before getting a chance to confront his own daddy issues… (just to name a few, of course).
However, in this particular instance, none of those things could be determined as the root of John’s rage. For once, he could point his finger with absolute certainty at the thing- no- the person making his blood boil in that precise moment.
In short, this was all Paul’s fucking fault.
“Well, I- I’m not really, uh, sure about that, Paul, to be quite honest-”
“-I know that, Bri. But the thing is, if you just listen to me for a second…”
John tuned out to his voice then, instead focusing on the way Paul shifted up just a little closer to Brian Epstein along the settee, blinking at him with those stupid fucking foot-long eyelashes like a traumatised bird with spunk in her eye. He looked fucking ridiculous; tie discarded carelessly somewhere in the room, top two buttons of his shirt pulled open so that a flash of that perfect pale chest was on show, along with the faint dusting of soft, dark hair that sprinkled across his skin. It definitely didn’t matter, in that moment, that John had actually been getting to see that same slip of skin (plus a whole lot more) on a semi-regular basis since he was a teddy-boy teen. He didn’t have a problem with it, per-say. He just didn’t quite gel with the idea of Paul so willingly giving Brian a glimpse of what he was certain belonged to him.
Fucking Brian. John couldn’t help but remember just how furious Paul had been when he’d upped and fucked off to Spain to enjoy their queer manager’s company for a week alone, back before they’d been the most recognisable group of blokes on the planet. When he’d touched back down in old Liddypool with a wicked suntan and a thoughtful gift for his lover(s) (a ceramic seashell with their names scraped into the side for Cyn, and a real silver ID bracelet in a neatly wrapped box with a soft-sounding engraving for Paul, which he still wore constantly on his left wrist to this very day) Paul had refused to speak to him for days.
Days.
It was agonising. John had lost his mind as the calendar marked a week of Paul’s silent treatment and ended up on his grovelling on his knees, crawling back like a desperate husband with a hundred thousand apologies dripping from his lips and his eyes and his arse. And now Paul was doing this?
Flirting with Brian- Brian of all people, just to get his own way! It was absurd and unfair! John had already tried out that little tactic personally during their European getaway and Brian had politely brushed him off- making it excruciatingly clear that he didn’t want to risk getting involved with anyone he worked with professionally, even if John was incredibly handsome and so so funny, and more than a little bit charming- (a trio of compliments that greatly stroked his ego, thank you very much)- it just couldn’t happen, Brian told him. It wouldn’t be right.
But now that Paul-fucking-McCharmly had turned on his famous hundred-watt smile along with the trademark glowing gorgeous stare and the flirty, swaying posture (suggesting that he was perhaps a little drunker than he was, perfectly willing to let his usual pretences and moral flippin’ standards down and maybe even take things to a new, more risqué level) Brian’s so-called-rules had jumped out the flippin’ window and splattered all over the screaming fans that gathered below their hotel, day and night. Suicide.
The worst part of the whole charade had to be that Paul’s tactics were actually working! Brian was a spluttering, blinking, blushing mess and was unknowingly agreeing to every single one of Paul’s petulant, prissy demands. It was all: bigger dressing rooms and more days to record once they got back into the studio, plus a bigger budget for ‘necessary’ purchases like posh cigarettes and the fancy clothes they kitted themselves out in whenever the monkey suits weren’t necessary. These were demands that Brian- being the surprisingly strong-willed leader of their little camp- usually dismissed with an amused hum and a smile. And fair enough too, John supposed. Brian let them have as much creative freedom as they wanted and in return, he handled the money and the bookings and the photo shoots and the studio rentals. Essentially- Brain said jump and they sung how high in perfectly-pitched harmony-and they certainly didn’t mind doing it either, because Eppy was their friend, their guardian, their guidance and certainly, their fifth member.
But sometimes, Paul got a little bit greedy. And unlike the others, Paul had a special talent for getting exactly what he wanted. That special talent was being a gorgeous, sexy, fucker with a smooth-as-butter voice, excellent eyebrows and an arse like two snooker balls in a sock. Somehow, he managed to just walk around like this (in public, for God’s sake!) whilst still being the whole worlds sweetheart: the baby-face, the polite one, the ‘cute’ Beatle who charmed the little screaming girls and the old biddies alike whilst still coming across intelligent enough to be respected by all the important (stuffy) art folk he mingled with. It was downright fucking sinful, John fumed. Paul was such a prick- how dare he be so beautiful and clever and funny and talented at the same time? It made John get all hot under the collar at the most inconvenient of times.
Brian too- apparently.
“I’ll get right on it Paul. I should be turning in now- have a lovely night boys.” His skin was still flushed all pink and rosy as he quickly scuttled off to the door, offering a limp, nervous wave to say goodbye. He glanced at John briefly, but it was clear to see his gaze was much more focused on Paul, who was now spreading himself against the supple leather sofa, legs just wide enough to be on the right side of suggestive. John swallowed tightly around his whiskey and huffed a goodnight. Paul gave a flirty wave, fingers dancing in the air along with a soft, lilting call of “Goodnight, Eppy.”
“Goodnight Paul.” Brian smiled.
“Goodnight Paul.” John mocked. It came off a little harsher than intended and Brian was certainly looking at him then, shame dropping on his face when he realised that he wasn’t being quite as subtle as he hoped. John sighed, looking away. Great, he thought with another bitter huff. Now I feel bad.
He’d fucking upset Brian, who was nothing but an innocent bystander- collateral damage, even, in Paul’s bloody crusade. If Paul noticed John’s remorse or his simmering anger, he certainly didn’t say so, instead waiting for the door to close before fishing around inside his blazer for the tightly wrapped joint John knew he’d been saving there for the last few hours.
“What’s got you being so horrible to our Brian then?” he asked, looking as innocent as any person could as they lit up a joint with a twenty-four carat gold zippo lighter. It was a flashy, wasteful present that John was sure Paul had been sent by one company or another, fishing for an endorsement. What do you get the man who has everything? They were certainly running out of ideas. It was probably Pepsi, or someone like that. John had always preferred the classics. Coca-Cola.
“Are you cross with him?” Paul asked, unfazed by John’s lack of initial response.
John sighed, standing up from the armchair so that he could flop down in the vacant space Brian had left on the settee. Okay, sure, he was still pissed at Paul for being such a flirt… but he was also bloody desperate for a few puffs of pot. It really eased his headaches and helped him sleep, something which was becoming more and more of a luxury as the days passed and their fame continued to balloon, stretching them all out until they threatened to burst.
“I’m not cross with Brian.” He decided to keep as vague as possible. If Paul really wanted to know, he’d have to pull his finger out and prod for once. John snatched the joint from his hands and took a long drag, exhaling perfectly formed rings of white smoke up into the air above their heads. “Everything’s fine.”
“If you say so.” He could hear the smirk in Paul’s voice, but refused to look, instead closing his eyes and sinking back into the sofa as the pot began to tickle at his brain. He wondered if Paul was feeling it too- and his answer was met a few seconds later when he felt the couch shift, Paul scooting up closer with one arm spread across the back of the settee, fingertips brushing the shell of John’s ear just slightly. It felt bloody marvellous, not that John was in any kind of mood to actually let Paul know that. He chose to say nothing and instead let Paul continue on stroking as they smoked in silence, together until the joint was finished.
Paul hadn’t prodded. That alone was making John’s irritation balloon by the second. Obviously agitated, he slapped his hands against his knees and sprung up to his feet.
“I’ll be going in to kip, then.”
In a flash, Paul was stood up beside him. “I’ll join you, then.”
John really wanted to argue, but he suspected his efforts would be futile. He headed off into the bedroom of their suite in silence, trying his best not to blink and stutter when he noticed the two twin beds had been so unceremoniously shoved together, creating a makeshift mid-size double bed for them to share. He certainly hoped it wasn’t of the maid’s doing- otherwise he and his so-called ‘best mate’ weren’t quite as subtle as they might have thought.
“Admiring my handiwork?” Paul asked with a smug, teasing smile, shrugging out of both his jacket and then his shirt. John just watched as the expensive fabric slipped from his lithe body, fluttering to the floor in a neat, condensed pile. Even when he was being a careless bastard, everything Paul did was still so fucking perfect. It infuriated John to no end. “I’ve always had a flare for the interior design, you know.” He flirted.
“Is that so?” John did a good job at keeping his voice level, mouth pulled into a neat frown, ignoring the heated looks he was being shot from across the bed. He did his best to focus on getting out of his own clothes, leaving on both his undershirt and his boxers before slipping underneath the sheets, arms folded over his chest as he settled down in the bed. His discontent still went on unnoticed, and John had no choice but to watch as, illuminated by the table-lamp light, Paul freed himself from every strip of clothing he wore until he was completely nude. Totally unabashed, he reached his arms up above his head and stretched- clearly pleased with both himself and the little performance he was putting on, if that sultry smirk was anything to go by.
John wanted to teach him a lesson by paying him no attention whatsoever, but that was clearly going to be impossible with Paul standing there, all naked and soft and beautiful. In a last-ditch attempt to maintain his frustration, he reached across the bed and turned the lamp off, shrouding Paul’s enticing figure in complete darkness.
It didn’t work. If anything, the blurry edges of Paul’s slim silhouette made the whole spectacle even more erotic than before. It was alluring, like the live sex shows they’d snuck into in Hamburg but less grotty, more sultry and delicate and soon, John felt the familiar tug of arousal stirring in his crotch.
Fucking Paul. John hated him.
(He didn’t. He wanted to, but he just fucking couldn’t)
John watched on silently as Paul slipped underneath the thin cotton sheets, scooting all the way over to the crease between the two mattresses just so he could rest his pretty, pointed pale chin on John’s shoulder. It was pitch black in their hotel room, but John didn’t need light to see the way Paul was blinking at him like the fucking prissy doe he truly was.
“Are you really tired, Johnny?” he asked with a seductive, smirk-ridden whisper, lips brushing against the skin of John’s shoulder but not pressing into his skin with enough force to kiss.
John kept his lips stiff and tight in a thin, ugly line.
“Yes.”
Even in the dark, John could make out Paul’s eye roll, followed by a quiet sigh as he finally seemed to note the discontent in John’s demeanour and rolled away from him, flopping down on his own side of the bed.
“Fine then. Be like that.”
“Oh come off it, Paul-”
“-no, John, you come off it.” Paul snapped. “I’ve tried to do a nice thing here, sneaking in and putting the beds together and that, and you’re just… throwing it right back in my face by being a total arse.”
“Oh, I’m being an arse? Hadn’t noticed.”
“John-”
“-Paul.”
“Stop it!” Paul sat up, sheets pooling at his waist and hands balling into little, irritated fists. “Why are you being such a prick, anyway? I haven’t done anything to you- Brian neither!”
“Oh, there you go again with your fucking fairy pal Brain!”
“…Wait, is that what this is about?”
John gave no response apart from a non-committal huff, rolling over to lay on his side so that his back was to Paul, eyes fixed on the edges of the blank hotel-room wardrobe that he could just about make out in the darkness, doing his best not to cry frustrated like a fucking… bird or a child.
“Oh… Johnny,” Paul simpered, laying back down and rolling over onto his side, plastering himself up against John’s back- one leg hitching over his hip and two arms snaking their way tight around his middle. “Really,” he let out a soft giggle, warm breath tickling the back of John’s neck. “Are you jealous of daft old Eppy?”
“I’m not fucking… jealous.” John grunted. He had half a mind to shove Paul right back over to his side of the bed (maybe even knock him off!) but his naked body was warm and his skin impossibly smooth so, John decided (very begrudgingly) that he didn’t totally mind Paul’s octopus-like tendencies. “I’m not…” he tried to repeat himself, but this time it came out softer, less abrasive, and Paul seemed to recognise this- cuddling him even tighter, tucking his head over John’s shoulder.
“Then what?” he whispered, burying his face into John’s neck, nosing at his pulse point and breathing in his smell.
“I just don’t like it, alright?”
He was giving Paul exactly what he wanted- on a silver fucking platter none the less- revealing the truth behind his miserable huffing and puffing without much actual work on his behalf- but the reality was this: it was late, he was tired and Paul was naked, for God’s sake, cuddled up behind him! John liked to (occasionally) think of himself as (somewhat) strong, but Jesus Christ, he wasn’t a saint! He hadn’t yet met a soul who’d possessed the will power to turn down the Paul McCartney, especially when he was both naked and available.
“I was just trying to get a quick one over on him John, you know that. I wouldn’t actually try it with Eppy and I very much doubt he’d go for me. He’s a professional, after all.”
“Please.” John laughed, shifting away from Paul just a second long enough to roll over onto his back, lifting an arm that Paul didn’t hesitate to slip underneath. He was clearly pleased with himself (judging by that smile, shining even in the dark) settling his raven head against John’s smooth chest.
“I sincerely doubt anyone would turn down a chance to meet with you between the sheets.” As if to prove his point, he trailed his arm down the curve of Paul’s spine, settling over the swell of his arse, pulling Paul closer into his side. Under the cotton sheets, John was starting to feel a little hot and bothered and wished he hadn’t gone to bed still wearing any of his clothes. Paul was naked, and tantalising and most importantly: there, his, more or less offering himself up for the taking.
“Eppy would.” Paul hummed, happy to curl into John, dropping a soft kiss against the left side of his chest. “I mean, I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t caught him looking once or twice-”
“-see!”
“-Let me finish!” Paul giggled. “-but, past little innocent flirting, I don’t think I’m his type.”
“His type?” John exclaimed. “Macca, babe, I hate to be the one to break it to you, buy you’re everyone’s type. You’re gorgeous.”
“That’s the problem! Eppy doesn’t go for pretty boys like me or… I dunno, George-”
“-George is not pretty.” John snipped. Paul rolled his eyes.
“I actually happen to think he’s quite striking, along with half the female population.” He said with a light shrug. “But anyway, that’s hardly the point. Brian’s type is… masculine, you know, manly-like blokes. I’ve seen the men he goes with. Big and built and rough- the lot of ‘em. The kind of blokes you’d never guess were even queer until they were trying it on with you. That’s why he likes you, y’know?”
“Me?” John had to admit: it was becoming difficult to maintain his erection when Paul was so insistent on blathering on about Brian and tough looking queers and the like. Then he’d dropped a bombshell like that? John was well aware that Brain didn’t fancy him. He’d learnt that lesson the hard way.
Paul simply scoffed, “Oh, come off it John. We all know Brian fancies you the best.”
“I already tried it with Eppy, Pud, in Spain.” John sighed, hoping that slipping in an old teasing nickname would soften the blow of bringing up that incident. “You remember, I told you.” he was certainly treading on eggshells, dredging up that old chestnut, especially after the way Paul had reacted the first time around. (It was 1963, they’d just made it to the top of the world, and Paul was so fucking angry and upset he kicked John out of their shared hotel room in nothing but his boxers and refused to speak to him until their next gig). However, this time around, Paul didn’t react quite as negatively. He just smiled, oddly enough, nuzzling his face into John’s chest, fingers drumming an unfamiliar rhythm against the middle of his chest. Maybe something new. Paul was always coming up with something new; something he’d heard in a dream or dance or a drug-induced haze.
“Brain’s a professional, like I said. But you’re still his favourite and of all people, I can see why, because you’re lovely, lad-” he stifled a giggle, flicking John on the tip of the nose as he pulled a daft, ghastly face. “-but he’d never actually try anything with any of us. Even if we wanted to.”
“I thought he might, for a second, today.”
“I’d never.” Paul suddenly lifted himself up, turning over to drape himself across John’s front with his hands snaking up to stroke his neck and settle in the back of his hair, scratching softly. John inched up slightly, holding his head up on the stiff hotel pillows so that he could look Paul in the eyes, but with blunt fingernails teasing the nape of his neck it was hard not to slip into a content, sleepy moan with his eyes fluttering shut. “Seriously, John. You know I was just messing Brian around to get some more studio time and stuff. He knows that too. And…” he trailed off, looking away with a sigh before settling back against John, tucking his head underneath his stubbled chin.
“…and?” John asked.
“…and I feel sorry for him, sometimes. He must get lonely.”
“Aye. Me must.” John agreed, quietly, rubbing Paul’s back with the swell of his knuckle. “It’s hard work this being queer lark.”
Paul giggled again, throat vibrating against John’s chest. “That it is. Why’d I let you talk me into it again?”
“Something to do, I suppose. That and I trapped ya’ with me’ irresistible charms and… superior musical abilities.”
“Now hold on-”
“I’m having you on darling, don’t get your lacy knickers in a twist!” John grinned, reaching forwards to run his hands through Paul’s hair (how did he get it so fucking silky? It was a joke. He must’ve been stealing lovely Jane’s lovely conditioner or something-) before pulling him up for a chaste kiss. “You’re the prettiest and most talented lad here,” he teased, holding Paul’s head tightly between two hands as the bass player squirmed and laughed, trying to duck John’s oncoming swarm of kisses.
Paul allowed John to roll him over into his back as he continued on peppering him with kisses, jeering at him- “…you’re an angel, a beauty, the best in show, I promise, baby!” he was ecstatic now, pressing his whole weight into Paul in the hopes that their spirited horseplay might spin into something a little more… self-serving.
“Careful!” Paul laughed, somehow torn between pushing John away and pulling him nearer as they made their way closer to the middle of the makeshift bed. “John, babe, watch out-” he yelped, but it was too late. John had been more than a little overzealous in his approach and suddenly, the two twin beds spun wildly away from each other under the force of their squirming, creating a mass chasm which John fell into, right on top of a naked, sprawling James Paul McCartney.
The same James Paul McCartney who let out a pained oof as his head smacked audibly against the floor making John’s heart jumped, wrongly mistaking Paul’s shaking laughter for tears, albeit only for a second. When he realised his mistake, it set him off too- and suddenly they were both laughing wildly like a pair of recently released lunatics in the middle of the two beds, bedsheets gathered in a swirling pile around them.
“We’re absolutely mental.” Paul groaned, rubbing his sore head. “Absolute nutcases. If the press could see this-”
“-they’d have us locked up in an instant, son.”
“No more movies after that.”
“-movies? I’m sure The Beatles as we know it would be over.”
“I’m sure Ritchie and George would understand.”
“Are you having a laugh? Old Ringo would forgive us eventually… but I’m sure George would be there to bash us both over the head with that guitar of his if we cut off his endless supply of dope and pussy.”
John was waiting for the short, loud laugh that followed, but it never came. He sat up then, looking across a Paul who still laid back on the itchy, cheap carpeted floor, eyes glassed over and fixed on the ceiling.
“Do you think they know?” he asked, sobering the mood. “George and Ritch? Fuck, Eppy too, I guess.” His eyes flitted back across to John’s briefly in the dark. “Do you think they have any idea about me and you?”
John had a difficult choice to make then. Of course, he could’ve lied to Paul. He could’ve said he didn’t spend night after night agonising over the very same possibility Paul was proposing to him. It would’ve been easy to lie- John lied all the time: to the press and to Cynthia and to himself.
But he’d learned his lesson on lying to Paul more than enough times. It had never worked for him before. The truth always seemed to find it’s way out, and that terrified him more and more every day.
“They’d be stupid if they didn’t.” he answered with a sigh. “-and they’re not stupid.”
“Why don’t they just… say?”
John’s stomach turned. “Maybe they’re disgusted by it.”
“I doubt it.” Paul didn’t seem anywhere near affected, giving a limp shrug in reply before shifting up slightly, leaning back on his elbows. “Brian’s a queer and nobody’s ever really had a problem with that.”
“True.” John shrugged back. “Maybe they just don’t know what to say.”
“I wouldn’t either.”
A silence passed between them then and John was reminded almost eerily of the endless stretch of chilly fields back home in Liverpool he’d spent so many days meandering around, traipsing up and down at night with nothing but a pack of ciggies and a sketch pad when Mimi was doing his head in or things just got a little too much in general. Strawberry Fields, he remembered especially fondly. The old children’s home with that giant forest of a garden. It was like one of those strange places in the world that so harshly reminded you of your own reality, forcing you into self-awareness, letting you know that this is really it, you really are alive- here, there, everywhere.
And John truly felt present in that moment with Paul, sat up between the suffocating barricades that the twin beds created around them, encasing them both in their own private little universe. Outside of those makeshift walls, for John, nothing else mattered. Not the press or the fans or the endless slew of TV appearances and movies and press conferences. There was nothing but John. Just him, Paul and the sweet music they made together; with or without instruments.
“Never in my life did I think this is how things would end up.” Paul said, and his word choice tickled at John’s consciousness. Paul sat up and reached over, taking John’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the callous skin. “-but I don’t regret it. Any of it, seriously. I love this.” He squeezed gently, inching closer so that their legs brushed together, static electricity crackling between them. “I love the music and I love George and Ringo and Brian and Mal. You’re all a part of me, and you’re the most important part, in my life, John. I love you.”
“Well, Pud,” John said without thinking, instead focused on the warmth of Paul’s hands and the way his thumb dragged over his skin, forming nonsensical words and patterns he was desperate to trace and preserve forever. “In my life, I love you more.”
“In my life, I love you more.” Paul mimicked, but instead of speaking, he sung it to a makeshift tune. It didn’t quite fit, but that was alright. John didn’t mind. They’d make it work somehow, they always did. “You should write that down.” Paul told him with a grin. “Did you just think of that?”
John grinned back at him. “I did, actually. Might be worth a quid, aye son?”